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Grand Prix - short story by Simon D. Ings * * * * The sea is off-white, banded by blue wave-shadow. A line of clotted cloud lies between it and the cobalt sky of La Rochelle. Angele talks but I’m not listening. I’m building sand castles. I lie down in front of the model and pick away the square and the Boulengrins with a fingernail. I press my little finger at a slant into the model to indicate the tunnel through to the harbor. The finishing touch: I trail sand between my fingers along the edge of the cliff to make the concrete wall Frasange demolished last year when his throttle jammed at 600 kph. The Monaco Grand Prix is fifteen days away. Angele peels off her shirt and heads for the water. I want to join her. The afternoon has steam-ironed my face and my shirt is dripping sweat. I want to dive into sea so cold it churns the gut, but I can’t risk getting sea water in my jacks this close to a race. It’s sunset. The haze turns brown and rotten before Angele reaches the diving tiers. When she falls her silhouette is as sharp and black as the wave shadows, a black slash piercing a hyphenated surface. I think of trajectories, Gs and vectors, fire masks, halogens |
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